


Dinner with John

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Babies, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: In this eighth part ofAftermath, honesty and Pad Thai are on the menu as Mycroft's people come to search Molly's house one more time.





	Dinner with John

**Author's Note:**

> Part 8 of 15 in the _[Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/series/848343)_ series.
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The muffled rapping could be ignored, but the sound of the distant doorbell dragged Molly from the depths of slumber, and the task was completed when Sherlock issued an audible groan and his long limbs contracted about her, clinging both to her and the peace of blessed oblivion. Her eyes popped open, and she pushed against him, trying to squirm up enough to catch sight of the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. She just managed it. 

4:04 P.M. 

“Sherlock!” she squeaked. “They’re here! Wake up! We have to let them in, and get out of here.” 

He released her then, rolling over onto his back, eyes blinking open. “God!” he muttered, “I could sleep for a year!” 

“I know!” she said, deeply sympathetic, but struggling up and off the bed just the same. She grabbed her dressing gown and started to put it on. “I’ll go let them in.” 

But he roused himself at that. “No, I’ll go,” he said, suddenly throwing off the covers. 

“Why?” she demanded, watching him get to his feet and stagger a couple of steps as he reached for his own dressing gown, lying across the foot of the bed. “It’s _my_ house!” 

“It’s _my_ fault they’re here!” he snapped, then immediately looked contrite. He came over to her and bent and kissed the frown from her lips. “I’m sorry. But just in case.” 

She was still frowning (mostly), but gave a curt nod. But when he smiled and said, “Good girl,” and headed for the door, she scowled at his retreating back, swiftly tied and pulled tight the sash of her dressing gown, and followed him out of the bedroom. She was certainly no longer a _girl,_ and complying with his every arbitrary decree did not make her _good_. 

She was still trotting down the stairs as he was looking through the peephole in the front door, but when, apparently satisfied, he swiftly unlocked it and swung it open, she paused warily on the bottom step for a moment. 

“Mycoft!” he exclaimed. “And Anthea, too! Good God, it’s a reunion. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said, wryly, stepping inside as Sherlock made way. Anthea came in and paused there, too, but four other figures slipped in past them, fanning out as they penetrated the ground floor of the house. Mycroft’s glance took in Sherlock and Molly as he continued. “I felt that this task required the personal touch. Anthea and I will see to it that all is in order for your return, Miss Hooper.” 

Sherlock whirled around, saw her standing there and narrowed his eyes a bit -- and if Mycroft had not been there she would have stuck her tongue out at him -- but then he turned back to his brother and looked him up and down. “It’s _Doctor_ Hooper, Mycroft, as you’re well aware. Are you alright? Have you had _any_ sleep in the last thirty-six hours?” 

“I had a very restful few hours’ nap after we spoke this morning, thank you, and plan to retire directly after an early dinner this evening.” 

“Alicia’s cooking?” Sherlock asked, with pointed amusement. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Mycroft said, primly. “And I see that you and Doctor Hooper have come to an understanding of sorts?” 

“We have,” said Sherlock, then caught Molly’s eye and added, “Well, more or less. I’ve told her about Sherrinford, and a few other things, and she hasn’t thrown me out yet.” 

“Her forbearance is only exceeded by her hospitality.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly toward Molly. “I am deeply appreciative of the offer you have extended toward my family, Dr. Hooper--” 

“It’s _Molly_ , Mycroft,” Molly interrupted, stepping down from the last stair into the foyer and padding toward the other three, the tile cold beneath her bare feet. “As you should remember.” She came up beside Sherlock, briefly wondering what Mycroft and his P.A. thought of the two of them answering the door _en déshabillé_ , and then deciding, as Sherlock apparently had, that she really didn’t care. She looked Mycroft over and said, “I’m sorry you felt you needed to come here yourself. From what Sherlock has told me, it was a difficult time for you, too.” 

“There was a degree of mental agitation involved, to be sure, but physically I am unharmed. I thank you for your concern, however.” 

Molly glanced from Mycroft to Anthea, asking, “Can I make you both a pot of tea before we get ready to go?” 

Anthea said, “Had some in the car for him when I picked him up. You’d do better to just go get dressed so you can go out for a while -- there’s a car waiting outside for you. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll make sure all’s tidy before we leave. This is probably just a formality in any case. The Met’s people are very reliable.” 

“That’s true, for the most part,” agreed Mycroft. “But with my parents coming here… well. One can’t be too careful. And it’s for your safety, and Sherlock’s, too, since he seems to have taken advantage of your generosity once again. His own flat will be undergoing repairs for quite some time, I’m afraid.” 

“I… he… Sherlock knows he is always welcome,” Molly said, all too aware that she was blushing. 

“Just don’t let him run roughshod over you,” Anthea said, with a smirk at Sherlock’s glare. “You need a firm hand at all times or he _will_ take advantage.” 

Molly fought down a chuckle as Sherlock said to the ever-composed P.A., “Yes, _Andrea_ , that will do.” 

Anthea -- _Andrea?_ \-- rolled her eyes and went on through the living room and into the kitchen. 

Mycroft said, “We should only be a couple of hours at most.” 

Sherlock said, “Take your time. We’re going to see John, taking some dinner over to him and Rosie.” 

“Give Dr. Watson my regards,” said Mycroft with a smile. “And Rosie, of course.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed. He frowned a bit, eyeing his brother again. “Don’t overdo, brother mine. And try not to worry so much. Things will work out.” 

Mycroft started to look scornful and, indeed, gave a little laugh, but it sounded oddly uncertain, and there was no amusement in his eyes at all. “Of course. I… I’m quite hopeful of a favorable outcome.” 

Sherlock actually gripped his brother’s arm for a moment. “ _Soldiers_ , Mycroft. Don’t forget.” 

Mycroft nodded and, as Sherlock turned away, gave his brother’s retreating back a very odd look. 

Almost respectful. 

Then Mycroft saw that Molly was still watching him and he flushed slightly. 

She gave him an encouraging smile, but had no time to speak as Sherlock had grabbed her hand and was now saying, “Let’s get dressed and get out of here,” and pulled her toward the stairs again. 

When they were nearly back to the bedroom and out of earshot, Molly asked, “ _Andrea?_ I always thought it was Anthea!” 

“She hates _Andrea_ , made the other up,” Sherlock said. 

“So you call her by her real name to annoy her?” 

“Of course.” 

Molly sniffed. 

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “Don’t you approve? I’ve known her for fifteen years, far longer than I’ve known you!” 

“It just seems like something a stroppy schoolboy would do.” 

“Well, that’s about the level of discourse we maintain.” he agreed, apparently unoffended. He grabbed up his mobile as she closed the door. “What do you want? Chinese or Thai?” 

“Thai,” Molly said. “Rosie likes Mango with Sticky Rice, and she’ll eat some Pad See Ew if we have it made with chicken. I can share with her.” She walked over to him as he began to text with his usual rapidity. 

“Right… and some Three Friends Panang for me...and John likes Pineapple Shrimp Curry… and we’ll get some Pad Thai, too, and a couple of orders of Beef Satay. And some Angel Wings. There.” 

“A veritable feast!” Molly smiled up at him. 

“We deserve a feast. And John will appreciate any leftovers, I’m sure.” He glanced at her. “What are you doing? Get dressed, Miss Hooper! We’re already running late, and the food will be ready for pick up in fifteen minutes!” 

“It’s _Doctor_ Hooper.” She glared a bit. 

And he grinned and swooped in, pulled her close and kissed her. 

She giggled beneath it, then hummed with pleasure, her arms slipping up about him, but then he ended it abruptly and said, “Later! There are six people downstairs who could walk in on us at any minute.” 

“Very well,” she sighed. “You still have some clothes here, thank goodness. Is your wardrobe at Baker Street entirely ruined?” 

“No, the damage was mostly in the front room and kitchen, but all my clothes will need to be cleaned. There was a lot of smoke. Mycroft’s people are going to take care of that, too.” 

Conversation languished as they gathered garments suitable for an evening with Dr. and Miss Watson, with a visit to Waitrose afterwards. Molly changed in the _en suite_ , taking some care with her hair, and applying a little make-up. Sherlock’s “Later!” still echoed through her brain… well, her whole being… in the most enticing way. She wondered how serious this _Later!_ might be, and found that she wanted to go out and demand a complete explanation and a detailed timeline. But then she laughed at herself. She had been patient with him for years. She could certainly continue being patient for another few hours. But beyond that… she might just have to tie him to her brass bed frame and ravish him. 

She was still smirking at that thought when she went back into the bedroom, and his appearance did nothing to dampen that warm flame of desire. He was smartly and impeccably dressed, as usual, in a suit she hadn’t seen in a while, and wearing her favorite of his slim-cut, expensive shirts, aubergine in color, with the first button open as usual and the second straining a bit, as though aching to be undone. 

“Is this alright?” he asked blandly, though his blue eyes were twinkling as he took in her expression. 

She felt herself blushing again. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are an evil man,” she said, with as much severity as she could muster (which was not much). 

“I keep telling you that, and yet…” 

She shook her head, fighting a smile as he came to her, but then gave it up and melted once more into his embrace, giving herself over to sensation as he kissed her once more. 

Yet presently, a loud thud was heard from downstairs, and Anthea speaking sharply in the wake of the incident. 

Sherlock pulled back, and frowned down at Molly. “We really can’t keep doing this, Dr. Hooper. These trousers are quite snug in fit as it is. Come, let’s away, shall we?”

 

*

 

In the car, Molly got out her phone to check her email. 

Sherlock said, “Send John a text that we’re running late, will you?” 

She quickly did as he’d asked, then noticed that he’d pulled out his own mobile and was busy sending a text, too. Immediately afterward, he pulled up his contacts list and did a search for IA. The information appeared, and presently a screen that presented him with the query, _Do you really want to block and delete this contact?_  

“Here,” he said to Molly, and presented the phone to her. “Do you want to do the honors?” 

“Who is ‘IA’?” Molly asked, but then she jumped a bit as his phone made a noise, a very disturbing noise, as of a woman in the throes of passion. It was a text alert that she had heard only once before, the culmination of a scene she would have been thankful to forget. “Oh my God, is that--” 

“Irene Adler, yes, damn the woman. I just sent her a final text goodbye, and told her I was going to block contact, but she was too fast for me. For us. Here. Press that _Yes_ and she’ll be history.” 

“Sherlock, how is it she’s not dead? I _saw_ her!” 

“No, it wasn’t her.” He frowned. “That’s a long story, too, I’m afraid. But here, do it.” 

“No!” Molly said. Heavens, that was ages ago! Before his fall from Barts! “It has to be _your_ choice. You’ve been carrying on with her a long time, apparently. _You_ do it, if you feel you must.” 

He sighed, and without hesitation pressed the red _Yes_. “In that last text she said to tell you congratulations,” he said as he put his mobile back in his pocket. “Perhaps that’s not as appropriate as she might think it. _Carrying on_?” He gave a short laugh. “Do you want me to tell you about it?” 

“I… “ She flushed at his steady gaze and swallowed hard. “If you want to.” 

“Well, what I _don’t_ want is a lack of honesty coming between us, though I have to say that particular story hardly redounds to my credit. Miss Adler was not in fact deceased. A few weeks after we had supposedly seen her in the morgue, I came home to discover her asleep in my flat. She presented me with an irresistible puzzle, which I solved, and thereby unwittingly revealed a rather important state secret to her and, by extension, to Moriarty -- she _was_ his associate, though a somewhat reluctant one. Quite the independent soul, Miss Adler. At any rate, Mycroft was livid, and Adler gloating fit to burst. But there was something else, of course, and it saved me: the passcode to her phone, which was still in my possession -- that was the gift I’d found on the mantelpiece that terrible Christmas Eve. We knew that phone held much more than a single state secret, however important. And I was finally able to crack the passcode, the four letters or numbers that had eluded me for months. S-H-E-R -- _I am Sherlocked_, the screen read when the passcode was complete. Quite the tribute, all things considered. 

Molly stared, open mouthed. “Then… she _did_ care for you!” 

“After a fashion. Not one that would inspire any sort of close tie. She was intrigued by my intellect, of course, just as I was intrigued by hers. But she was also diverted by my limited sexual experience -- understandable, given her profession. I did end up saving her life. Mycroft had had her shipped off to Karachi, and she ended up in the hands of some very bad men. Most inconvenient, but that’s Mycroft for you. He’s nothing if not thorough.” 

“You went to Pakistan and… rescued her?” 

“Mmm. It was quite the adventure. Disguise. Swordplay. Desperate flight to the border and freedom.” 

Molly swallowed hard, and then had to ask. “Did you sleep with her?” 

Sherlock hesitated a moment, and seemed to be studying her. “Would it make a difference?” 

She was suddenly close to tears again, but managed to speak calmly enough as she replied, “I… you risked your life to save her. And you have apparently maintained ties to her ever since -- even if it was _just texting_.” 

“It was _just texting_ , but in light of what is now between us, I knew it would do great harm if I let it continue. And no, I did not have any sort of sexual relations with her. Not that she didn’t offer -- and not that I wasn’t tempted. But to give her that kind of power over me would have been madness.” 

“You were afraid?” 

“Well, yes! But not perhaps in the way you’re thinking. She was -- _is_ \-- an intriguing woman, quite brilliant in her way, and yet she… _er_ … uses her powers for evil, as the saying goes. Sex, for her, is a commodity, a means to an end, and though she offered her services to me that night in thanks for saving her life, no good would have come of accepting. As I told you, I believe I’m not _entirely_ without experience, but those blurry nights at university left little impression. With Adler, that would not have been the case. The event would have coloured my memories, and tainted every subsequent encounter, should it be my fate to someday form the sort of attachment that would induce me to abandon my self-imposed abstinence. In short, it wasn’t worth it.” 

Molly turned her head away, for a moment. He saw too much, with those keen eyes, as penetrating as the mind behind them. But then she gathered her courage and forced herself to look at him again, her voice only slightly unsteady as she asked, “And have you? Formed such an attachment?” 

He smiled, and picked up her hand and held it warm in his own. “I believe I have.” 

Molly bit her lip, and started to turn away again, groping in her handbag for a tissue. 

But his arm slid around her shoulders and he drew her close against him. He tipped her chin up and gently kissed her quivering lips, and then said, “I’m sorry. So many things to be sorry for. But I do love you, Molly, upon my honor.” 

Ten minutes later, when the car paused at the Thai place so they could fetch their takeaway, Molly saw the driver’s face as he held the door open for them, and she blushed vividly, realizing from the man’s expression that he’d observed more in the rear view mirror than was either proper or desirable. Sherlock, however, merely gave the driver a withering glance, one brow slightly raised, before tucking Molly’s arm in his and leading her into the restaurant.

 

*

 

“Oh, that was good!” John exclaimed an hour and a half later, pushing back his chair as they were finishing their Thai feast. 

Rosie crowed and babbled in agreement, and they all laughed, and Molly got up and gave her goddaughter a smacking kiss on her cheek. The little girl reached for her, demanding to be picked up, and Molly complied, lifting her from the highchair. ”Oh, you’re getting so big!” she exclaimed, delighted at Rosie’s solid weight in her arms, and she laughed again as Rosie patted both her cheeks with her little hands. Molly looked up, met Sherlock’s warm smile with one of her own -- his interactions with Rosie when they’d first arrived had been nothing short of adorable, completely charming his fellow godparent -- and then she said to John. “Shall I take her up and pop her in the tub? If she only had a short nap this afternoon she should be ready to go down fairly early.” 

“We live in hope,” John said, wryly. “But yeah, that’d be great. I think Rosie would like that, too. She’s been missing you these last few weeks.” 

Molly said, “I miss being with her every day, too. But I think her daddy has taken wonderful care of her. You even managed to put a bow in her hair!” 

John shrugged, but looked pleased. “I try, at least.” 

“And succeed.” All three adults’ smiles were turning wistful. It was hard not to think of Mary, though a number of extremely eventful months had passed. Molly said to Rosie, “Come, Miss Watson, bath time and pyjamas await!” 

As she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, she glanced back and saw that John and Sherlock were conversing as they cleared the table. “That’s right,” she said softly to Rosie. “It will do them good to talk without ladies being present. They’ve been through a lot these last few days. They’re good men, Rosie -- but you know that without me telling you.” 

Rosie entertained Molly in the bath for well over half an hour. The little girl could not yet walk on her own, but she was extremely proficient at crawling, and Molly repeatedly had to discourage her from pulling herself up and standing against the side of the tub, bouncing in delight at her accomplishment. She’d be walking soon, and then they’d be in trouble! In the meantime, she finally settled down to splashing and playing with her bath toys after Molly had finished washing her with a soft flannel. Rosie didn’t even mind having her hair shampooed, which was a great relief. As the water cooled, Molly would let a little out and fill it back up with more hot from the tap. But finally Rosie paused in her play and gave a big yawn. 

Molly laughed. “Time to get out, I think, Miss Watson.” 

A few minutes later, Molly carried her pink pyjama-clad goddaughter down to say good night. Dinner and dishes were all put away, and John and Sherlock were now sitting on the sofa, John with the last bottle of Singha and Sherlock swirling a snifter of brandy. But both men rose and set down their drinks to give Rosie a goodnight kiss. 

John took his daughter in his arms for a moment, then glanced between the two godparents. “She tells me she’s going to need a little playmate before long,” he said, with a teasing gleam. “You two better get cracking if you’re serious about this.” 

Molly’s brows rose -- what _had_ Sherlock been saying to John as they cleared up the dinner things? -- but her smile slipped, too, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by longing --- the dearest wish of her heart, and ordinarily not only well hidden but entirely unacknowledged, even by herself. She actually had to force a laugh when Sherlock said drily, “Subtle, John. You and my mother would get on splendidly.” 

John only grinned. “My filters are pretty much non-existent since my most recent near-death experience, so you can blame yourself. But you just remember what I said before we went for cake that time, eh?” 

Sherlock sighed. “And as I said: you and my mother? Like this.” And he held up two lean fingers, crossed tightly together. 

Molly, longing to escape the awkward moment, said brightly, “Shall I put her down, John? Then you and Sherlock can continue your... um… discussion?” 

John said to Rosie, “Good night, my love,” and kissed her. She clung to his jumper a bit, so he kissed the top of her head, then gently disengaged her and handed her to Molly. 

Sherlock bent and kissed Rosie’s cheek, too, and then gave Molly a crooked smile and a wink. Molly felt herself flush, but as she carried Rosie from the room and walked up the stairs she realized that it was happiness that lit her soul. “Everything’s going to be fine, Rosie-love,” she said softly, and Rosie patted her arm, apparently agreeing.

 

*

 

After two storybooks, Molly laid Rosie in her cot, said a goodnight prayer over her, as Molly’s mother had faithfully done in innocent days long past, and then began to sing very softly. 

Molly had always loved to sing, and though her voice was just passable in a karaoke bar, it was perfectly adequate for lullabies and Rosie had given it her unequivocal seal of approval. Often it had been the only thing that would quiet her, in the long days and nights after Mary’s death, and Molly had developed a standard programme of songs that she could warble with some proficiency. 

The little girl lay there, now, quietly sucking her thumb, her blue eyes blinking up at Molly, trying to stay awake for the entire performance, but to no avail. By the fifth song, which happened to be the eminently soothing _Sweet Baby James_ , Rosie’s eyelids were drooping, and by the end of the piece she was breathing deeply, sound asleep. 

“Good night, my darling,” Molly said softly, and turned toward the door. 

And there was Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe. 

“How long have you been there?” Molly whispered as she came over to him. 

“Three songs or so. You sing well.” 

“Thank you! Rosie seems to think so.” 

“You’re... very proficient with her.” 

“We had a neighbor I used to sit for, so I did have some experience to start with. But you do well with Rosie, too.” 

“She’s easy to do well with.” 

“Yes.” Molly turned and took one last look at Rosie in her cot. 

Sherlock said, “I didn’t mean proficient, precisely. Though of course you are.” 

Molly looked at him again, cocking her head inquiringly. 

“I meant to say… _beautiful_.” 

She stared, her heart thudding. She could not doubt his sincerity, not with that look on his face. Reaching out, she took his hand. “Thank you.” 

He turned his hand to grasp her fingers and lifted them to his lips. Then he retained her hand in his, warm and strong. “Do you want to know what John said? Before the cake place?” 

“I… yes. What?” she asked, feeling somewhat breathless. 

“He said that the chance doesn’t last forever. That it’s gone before you know it.” 

“Oh,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Can we… I mean… let’s go home.”

 

 

~.~


End file.
